A Slave to My Wife
Of all God's precious creations, my darling wife is the one upon this globe which I hold most dear. She is my angel. I love her more than life itself. Though, if I were ever to refer to her as my most prized possession, I would have no life at all. To me, Marlene was first eye-candy, then arm-candy, and the sweetness of her soul has caused her to become the apple of my eye.
Back in my younger, bigoted, heathen days, my only goals in life were to gallivant and sow wild oats. Not for any reason of procreation, you understand. Ultimately my one aim was to 'practice' safe sex. Hopefully, I'd get good at it. My own arrogance, boredom and ignorance sent me to seek her out.
At 30 years old I'd bedded more women than I care to admit, though most of them only the once. I was a main course man, I did not go back for pudding. It was the joke amongst my friends and I. They awarded me with the nickname of 'QC'. Quality Control, my mission in life was to sample, size, and grade. It dawned on me upon first spying Marlene, I'd not yet sampled a black one. On hearing the expression. 'The blacker the berry, the sweeter the juice, she became the hunted.
Marlene proved troublesome. To my bitter frustration, she would not give it up. I persevered longer than I care to mention for an opportunity to add her to the sum of my experiences. The girl was an arty drama type, aspiring to be an actress. In socialising with her I learned. She'd strange political views, and some even stranger black friends, I dared not entertain, they all seemed rather militant to me. On the fourth Friday of our courtship, we made a bargain. I would attend a play with her in London's West End, after which she would spend the entire weekend with me at my home. 48 hours, home advantage, conquest was inevitable. Besides she'd promised.
I am not one enamoured with theatre, and ballet quite frankly gets my goat. However, a few hours' sufferance was a small price to pay for a weekend of blissful sin. 'The Displacement of the Humble', some crappy little play on the subject of black history, funded by good taxpayers' money, no doubt. Why would I be interested in the slightest? For the sake of a bit of leg-over, I'd sit through it with her, and I'd try not to fall asleep.
During the pain of waiting for the production to begin, I looked over to Marlene. She sat on my right, next to the aisle. The house lights dimmed. This woman was so damned pretty, the sweet berry of a dessert to be served later. My mind raced forward to the time I would have her between my sheets. Gun shots! Fear struck me! Panic, more gunshots. The theatre was quickly overrun by black youths in hoodies.
Great! - We were being fucking robbed.
You couldn't call these kids stupid, they were armed and organised. One man tried to be a hero; they shot him dead without a second thought. The gang systematically worked their way through the audience stealing people's hard-earned money and treasured jewellery, shouting in that janga-janga hip-hop patois jargon that only they could understand. I saw one of them eye Marlene from behind his balaclava. In that moment I feared for her. What they could take from me could be replaced. What they may take from her cannot be returned. The assailant reached over and grabbed her. In that moment my heart declared to me its love for her. I knew her life meant more to me than my own. I accosted the blackguard with fervent vigour. A thorough pistol-whipping humbled me. I was left bleeding and helpless, reduced to a spectator as he dragged her away.
We were all relieved of our valuables, then divided into two groups. The first consisting mainly of women were led out through the main doors. I dared not let my mind consider their fate. The remaining twenty or thirty of us were rounded up as stray cattle and herded to the mezzanine floor. What did those dark infernal characters want? Damn them. They'd taken from us everything of value. I suspected they might hold us whilst they emptied our bank accounts using the cash machines.
Upstairs in the private section of the theatre each member of my group was bound before being shoved into some kind of dark-room, like a windowless office. Behind the last person the door was locked and secured. Our number were packed as sardines, total darkness. All the time we could hear our captors speaking that slangy yob-speak. They seemed jovial, as if the situation were of no significance.
In my corner, pressed by bodies left and right my mind raced. My throat became dry. There was nothing to quench my thirst. About me some shouted for help, others cursed and promised revenge. The man closest to me repeated the same prayer one thousand times.
I thought of the scene outside. Helicopters and armed police with megaphones. I imagined my parents, and their reaction to the ransom demand. My mother would sell the clothes she stood in to have me freed. My father's reaction I could not gauge with any confidence. The fact that it was my mother who ruled the roost brought me comfort.
From comparative silence, disquiet entered. Beneath a desk a box of oranges were found. There was no room packed in this heat for any kind of madness or stampede. The fruits were passed along in a civilised manner. A new bliss, quenched thirst, never had a simple orange brought me such joy.
I conjured a vision of Marlene. The terror in her eyes as they led her away. I could hear no screams or disturbance. My best was to pray for a safety and hope she had been freed.
The hours passed, the entire night perhaps. It was impossible to tell. Every watch, phone or time-telling device had been taken from its owner. In my desperation I'd no choice but to contribute to the pungent stench of urine.
Hunger ripped through my insides, and then more pain. I knew the time, it was the morning. The other waste function of my body told me so, and that was regular as clockwork. More hours passed, my bowel begged for relief. I was not the first, and out of necessity I exercised my option to squat.
Packed in a room without water or food, in sweaty company, the floor decorated by faeces and urine. Was this my fate? The place where I should die. Hunger or thirst, which is the more painful exit?
Consciousness came and left at will. I dreamed of Marlene, and in my mind I lived the life that I thought we may have had. We had two beautiful children. My family wanted for nothing. We grew old together, and our love blossomed every day. I imagined her smile, her face, those lips. The smell of her hair. Her body, its softness, its smoothness. She was most beautiful. My thoughts caressed her every curve. We lived our lives into old age. I died a fulfilled and happy man. I had lived a dream life, with a dream woman. I was going to a good place to wait for her to join me, and I would wait for her in the light. Light! I awoke.
We were freed! Official looking gentlemen had come to our rescue. Some were security staff, others were policemen. I saw Marlene accompanied by a uniformed policeman. I ran to her full of joy. Immediately I saw through the masterful plan of the kidnappers, and how they planned to escape. The police officer. I recognised those eyes as the eyes of the man in the balaclava.
"Run!" I screamed "It's them!" I leapt on the officer, but I was weak. He easily overpowered me, and laughing, he pushed me to the ground. Through my huffing and puffing and gnashing of teeth, he simply held me down until all my capacity to rage ha ebbed.
"That's just Cliff." Marlene laughed with him. "He's an actor. Just like me. Come on Cliff, let him up now."
"What?" I was so shocked, I could hardly speak.
"Yes," he pulled me to my feet. His voice seemed warm and gentle. Yet he spoke with passion and authority. "All that rage and anger, and you've been locked up for just sixteen hours. On the slave ships similar conditions were endured for months on end."
"This was a production by the Shock Simulation company. Slaves were rounded up by men with guns, as you were. Their possessions were taken from them, as yours were. Men were separated from women and the aged, as you were." Marlene waved a finger at me as the spoke. "Do you know it could take 12 months for a slave ship to leave England for the round-trip via Africa and America, and you, you lightweight are at death's door after less than a day!" Her voice chastised me but her smile showed me warmth. "Do you feel the hurt and injustice? You were minding your own business and men with guns stole everything from you, your life."
"Scurvy," I mumbled. Examining some orange-peel I'd removed from my pocket but in my mind I was feeling her words. "I'm so sorry." The words came from my lips, I'd said them a thousand times before. 'I'm sorry I didn't call.' 'I'm sorry for you loss.' Today sorry took on new meaning, for something I hadn't done.
"It's cool." She rubbed my shoulder, "and don't worry. The guy who was shot dead, Kenny. He's an actor too." She pointed to another character dressed in a uniform.
"Sorry I had to hit you." Cliff offered his hand. "But it's all covered in the disclaimer you signed when you bought the ticket." He made his excuses and departed.
I didn't know what to make of it. I was just so happy to be alive.
"You bought me that ticket. You knew all along You were never in danger and neither was I." Filled with relief and joy, my heart contained no room for anger.
"So now you've had black history lesson number one. Are you ready for more? Act two perhaps?"
"No thank you." I shyed away.
"Are you sure?" She took my hand. "The next act involves sexual abuse and whipping." She flashed her warm brown eyes at me. "Lots of whipping, after all, I did promise."